posted January 11, 2010 06:08 PM
The brain is a many-hissing tangle of serpents;
wise, half-wise, and contradicting one another. The heart is a quiet plea;
a question which cannot be answered yet,
but patiently insists on being asked.
The body is a wanderer.
The soul is a dream.
Trees are windows onto natureworlds.
Rocks are doorways onto underworlds;
where slithering and creeping intentions evolve.
Here is a laboratory,
where experiment undermines experiment,
and wanting to know is an affliction
that only marks you out.
Now we see from the merest corner.
Now we stand in the center,
perspective in perspective,
worlds swarming all around.
Cough,
and you cough up a curiosity;
an idea, intrigue, or animal.
Tiny hairs along the vegetables.
Conspicuous is the smallest thing.
Werewolf angels adorn the passageways, from sign to sign,
where we peered over the shores and into the creatureful seas, --
only to return, with jangling necklaces of words, anxious to loudly undress,
and recover the nakedness of silence; beyond and before all experience.
Innocent, cultureless,
and strangely defensive of the purity that exists
in an ignorance which has become conscious, at least, of itself, --
we sought remote places of escape.
Where light moves independently of objects, in the open air.
Where men do not find, and insist on naming, us.
Where we refuse to be mirrors reflecting mirrors.
Where even wisdom is not wanted,
if it can only be hung like an anchor, or a cross,
around one's neck, and the necks of others.
Where children are left to be children;
to grow into new and original men.
And spirits are left to be spirits;
to incarnate according to their pleasure,
and not our own.
Where nothing is holier, and everything is holy.
Where the heart is an inscrutable law unto itself,
and the mind, a quaint and compelling distraction.
Where nothing means anything for very long,
but meaning is attributed by the heart;
and significance wanes in the abstract,
even as it wanes in sense.
In heaven, as it is on earth.
©2010 Valus